


blame the gods

by modernpatroclus



Series: I'll look after you [2]
Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blame Agamemnon, He Ruins Everything, M/M, Sick Trope, Trojan War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 22:17:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6347731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/modernpatroclus/pseuds/modernpatroclus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a fic where Pat gets sick and Achilles has to hlp pls<br/>Or: During the war, another plague breaks out. But this time, Patroclus gets sick. Achilles wavers between staying and taking care of Pat, and going off half-cocked on Agamemnon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blame the gods

**Author's Note:**

> I received [this prompt on tumblr](http://pipedrevm.tumblr.com/post/141620533342/a-fic-where-pat-gets-sick-and-achilles-has-to-hlp), and I wrote [ a thing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6345973). Now I've written another. Oh, muse.  
> The title is from a quote from The Odyssey.

I am with Briseis, teaching Greek to the other enslaved girls in Achilles’ camp, when it happens.

One moment, I am smiling and encouraging a girl’s attempts at the new word I am teaching, and the next, I am bent over in the sand, vomiting.

The girl I had been speaking with freezes for a moment, wide-eyed, before she screams in terror.

I stop heaving after a few minutes, and become vaguely aware of a hand rubbing my back through my tunic.

Briseis’ voice sounds distant, as if she was standing across the beach instead of kneeling next to me. Her tone is worried, but when I look up she is masking it well with a strong expression. “Go to the white tent,” she tells one girl in their native tongue. “Get Machaon – the healer. Bring him to us. Now!” she urges, and the girl recovers herself, running in the direction of the medical tent.

I cough and attempt to stand, though my legs give in under me.

“Patroclus,” she says, gently this time. “Sit down and wait for Machaon. You will be all right.”

I meet her worried gaze with an attempt at reassurance. “I know. I did not even feel ill earlier. Perhaps it is over now.”

She nods in agreement, more hopeful than believable.

But a minute does not pass before the nausea returns. I am sick again, longer this time. When I recover, Briseis says, horrified, “Patroclus.” She points to the sand, and I see why she is frightened: blood.

I then realize what is happening to me. “It is the plague sent by the gods.”

I whisper it, but Briseis has heard. She gasps in horror and shakes her head stubbornly. “No. You cannot have the plague.”

“Briseis, I am never ill. What else could it be? This is not natural sickness.”

Still, she shakes her head. “No. I refuse to believe it until Machaon has seen you. If that is the problem...”

She trails off, not needing to finish. We have both seen the camp in the days following Agamemnon’s latest offense. This plague is even worse than the last. Hundreds have fallen in only a few days. None have survived.

I manage to stave off the next wave of nausea until Machaon arrives. But when Briseis tells him what happened, his face is grave. I know, then, that I am right.

* * *

I wake in the white tent some time later, feeling both hot and cold all over. The light comes only from the candles, the sky black as midnight through the partially opened tent flap.

I push myself up from where I lay, but as soon as I do, two things happen: First, a new wave of nausea hits me, dizzying me until black spots cloud my vision; second, a hand pushes me back down to the cot.

It feels like minutes pass before I am well enough to open my eyes again. The first thing I see is Achilles’ worried face leaning over me.

“Patroclus.” Pa-tro-clus. It settles me just enough to come back to myself without feeling sick.

“You look worried,” I say, attempting lightness. I do not like that look on his face, and I like even less that I am the cause of it.

My attempt at humor works enough for a smile to briefly grace his features. But then he remembers the situation.

“I am not going to kill Hector,” he says, and I am confused about what the prophecy has to do with this. “Hector has done nothing to me. Agamemnon has,” he finishes, and I realize his anger.

“Achilles, do not go courting conflict with Agamemnon,” I say, a warning and a plea.

He takes my hand in his, and it feels so cold on my overheated skin that a shiver escapes me. It does not help my case.

“Patroclus, you are ill because of him. If he was not so thoughtless and remembered that he is only an insignificant man, instead of disrespecting the gods, we would not keep having these misfortunes. You would not be a patient in here.”

He is as fierce in his pain as he is on the battlefield, and I pity Agamemnon for crossing him.

My arguments leave me as I have to roll over and vomit into a basket on the ground. This time, the hand on my back is steadier and more comforting. Achilles whispers words of comfort to me until I stop heaving, and I collapse back onto the cot even sweatier and more chilled than before.

We are quiet for a few moments while I settle my breathing. Achilles watches me warily, brushing my damp hair from my forehead.

“I do not like being sick,” I decide.

The flicker of the smile returns. “This is the first time,” he notes. “You have gotten off easy so far.” The teasing brings a smile to my own face, glad to have momentarily distracted him from his anger.

“It is not the first time I’ve thrown up,” I say, remembering the fateful accident with the boy, and running away only to stop and get sick. “But it is my first time being truly ill. I did not think it could get worse.”

Achilles shakes his head at me and turns. He grabs something, and when he turns back to me I see that it is a cloth. When he puts it on my forehead, it is damp and refreshing, but not so cold as to make me shiver again.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Of course,” he replies without hesitation.

A coughing fit overtakes me then, and when I pull my hand away, I see more blood. Achilles seizes my hand and inspects it, the sticky red liquid angering him again.

“I will be back,” he says, making to stand. But before he does, I grab his wrist and pull. It would not have been enough to stop him on a good day, and it is poor now from how weak I am. But Achilles obeys, settling again in his seat.

“Please do not leave,” I whisper, my voice harsh from the strain of the last few hours.

His eyes soften, and his voice, too, when he says, “Never. I am here.”

He intertwines our fingers and rests our hands in his lap, idly tracing shapes on my arm with his free hand. He stares at our hands as he speaks. “But Patroclus, I need to speak to him. He has to appease the gods and end this plague. I will not let his pride take you from me.”

“And you will. But do not make it a spectacle out of anger. He is not a reasonable man, and it could only make things worse.”

Achilles sighs. “You have always been so much better than me.” The words are not bitter.

I laugh. “I think you let affection cloud your judgment.”

“I wish you would not undervalue yourself,” he says, looking at my face again. His green eyes are intense again, and I swallow, a lump in my throat not from being sick.

“You are everything to me, Patroclus. And if I have to storm Olympus itself to make sure you are better, I will.” A promise, heavy with everything between us.

He lifts our entwined hands and says, “I swear it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed!  
> Comments make my day!


End file.
